At 3:45 on Christmas afternoon, after I had spent two days cooking dinner for my son and daughter-in-law, my doorbell finally rang. It wasn’t them. A courier handed me a manila envelope in Lauren’s handwriting: “We decided to spend Christmas at my mom’s house this year. Last minute change. Hope you understand.” My husband had been gone only nine months. By sunrise the next morning, I found another envelope hidden outside in Richard’s handwriting, and the message inside sent me straight to the desk he had told me not to touch.

“Richard left this with me.”

I stared at it.

“There’s more?”

“This part isn’t financial.”

He set the box on the kitchen table.

“He gave it to me the week before he died.”

“Why didn’t you bring it sooner?”

“He asked me not to.”

“Did he tell you when?”

Harris smiled slightly.

“Not exactly. He said I’d know.”

“And you do?”

“I think so.”

I waited until Harris had gone before opening the box.

Inside was a dark green leather journal.

Richard’s.

The edges had softened from use.

On the first page, in his handwriting, were the words:

If you’re reading this, I didn’t get to say all of this out loud.

So here it is.

I sat at the kitchen table.

The early entries were ordinary.

Weather.

A joke he heard at the hardware store.

A complaint about squirrels raiding the bird feeder.